


Four or Five Years

by Aurastorm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: I'm Bad At Titles, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 22:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21417718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurastorm/pseuds/Aurastorm
Summary: Shamir is never around for any of the Church’s celebrations, good thing Catherine is always looking for an excuse to be with her
Relationships: Catherine & Shamir Nevrand
Kudos: 26





	Four or Five Years

**Author's Note:**

> *Part 1 is completely SFW , Part 2 is NSFW

  * \- 1

She knew. 

She always did. Ever since they met those four or five years ago. Sure, her partner could vanish via some odd Dagdan technique (or so she thought anyways) but it was always done almost unwillingly in those moments of softness that Shamir allowed herself once every lone moon. Most times, she was wise enough to let Shamir appear when she was ready to pretend she had never left, but today? Oh, no. Her judgement is always one drink too deep on this day, and maybe she craved putting salt somewhere other than her mouth. 

Some wounds were always fresh, afterall.

It was the day of Seiros. While the knights celebrated their patron, most of the students lingered around the corners, sneaking away with any goods that fit their pockets. Catherine figured she could find Shamir somewhere in the monastery, probably any pseudo-private ledge near the training grounds, which were closed for the celebrations. Shamir was the only knight who was not devoted to Seiros or Lady Rhea, and as such, she saw more fit to enjoy a quiet day, vanishing early on and not coming back till the next day. 

So, Catherine does as she did for four or five years. 

She stuffs her pockets and two flasks with the goods of the feast and goes to find her ghost of a partner.

Sure enough, thunder strikes twice. She is right in guessing Shamir had willingly tried to conceal herself for the day, and that she was hiding from the festivities and more. She was idly twirling a dagger between her fingers, other hand busy petting a stray cat that she had grown fond of. Catherine doesn’t say anything, afraid Shamir would try to vanish again, quietly taking a sit by the Dagdan woman. “Skipping on the fun?”   
“Always.”

“True, but lucky you: you have an outstandingly handsome partner, who is also a master at sneaking out the goods, just for you.”

“You are drunk.”   
“Correction, tipsy, and I know you love the baked goods the kitchen cooks,” Catherine nudges her before starting to empty her pockets pulling out a few baked treats carefully wrapped in cloth napkins, laying them out between them. Wasn’t the entire buffet, but Shamir seems quite pleasantly surprised at the assortment of food that Catherine managed to bring out.

Of course, she does not say anything right away, far too interested in taking a goodie from the mini-picnic, as Catherine wordlessly hands her the flask. And for an hour or so they sit in a comfortable silence, watching Garreg Mach, quiet and still. 

“You are missing the festivities,” Shamir finally breaks the silence, immediately reinstating the silence, hoping Catherine does not run away with the opening.

“What fun are those. Bunch of high nobles and knights talking about things to do with Fodlan for the next century or ten,” She shrugs, haphazardly waving her flask from one side to another between words, making Shamir wrinkle her nose at her loud partner, “What? You know what I think of nobility.”   
“Yes. Glad you left it. I am aware.” The sniper pushes the flask a bit, further into Catherine’s palm, so as to keep it from falling completely away, “It is your right to be there, though.”

“A right I do not want. I am not here for the knights I am here for--”

“Rhea.”

“Lady. Rhea.”

The silence creeps back. Shamir knows Catherine is pouting, just by her posture. She knows Catherine’s pout without even looking: Brows pressed together, small wrinkle on one side of her frown that she holds a bit higher, blue eyes throwing daggers, a small tweak of her nose, like a bull taking aim. It was all harmless. When Catherine was truly upset, she would not show it, she acts. Shamir can afford another bite at a pastry. 

“Stop pouting. I despise it.”

“Yeah, but what don’t you despise?”

“Cats. These pastries. The alcohol.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing comes to mind.” She pops the rest of the pastry into her mouth, chewing fully aware of Catherine staring at her. And yet, Shamir let’s the quiet creep as Catherine holds the intense leer. She wonders how long Catherine will let her dominate the push and shove of their talk.

“Nothing?”

Shamir takes a drink, holds her thought for a second, before concluding, “Nothing.”

It irks her enough that Catherine lets out a groan, “You are such a pain! How can you say that after all we been through!”

The sniper looks to the knight who in plain disgruntled state is taking a long swing from her drink. Shamir times it well, saying her piece as Catherine takes the last gulp, “You forgot I was the one who said we should perhaps marry.”

Catherine chokes and sprays out the last gulp, and her partner peeps over the edge to see if that got any poor sod that was striding back to their dorm, all while her partner coughed up a bit of the Goddess’s Beer. It takes her a minute but she recovers, huffing as a hand goes to her hip, all while Shamir picks a second snack and nibbles on it, looking at Catherine. 

If Shamir knew the knight, Catherine knew the sniper just as well. She knew that Shamir hid a small smirk behind the little bread, that she had pulled her leg out of sheer fun, and that her partner would do it again just to get a similar reaction. But she lived for that twinkle of mischief, even if that was at the expense of her dignity. 

“You are a real pain,” Catherine shakes her head looking at Shamir who only gives her a little chuckle, “You need to stop pulling my leg that way and only follow it with a ‘I’m Shamir and I like none of the things’ -!”

“I like things.” Shamir offers it half of the bread she had not already chewed. Catherine looks at her and reaches for it -- only for the sniper to pull it back. It stuns her for a second, before the knight tilts her head and Shamir offers it again. After a second of hesitation, the blonde leans in and takes a bit of it, pulling back eating it up with a small red tint spreading on her face, “ You are looking a bit red, partner.”

She uses a knuckle to clean some crumbs off her lip, clearing her throat while trying to find a place to set her eyes, “Me? Never. We got plenty of fresh air out here!”

“So you would not head inside?” Shamir eats the rest of the pastry,” If I asked you to?”

“What.”

  * \- 2

Had she ever been to Shamir’s room? Part of her is sure she has been, but the memory is not coming back to her no matter how hard she tries. Catherine had certainly slept with Shamir--  _ not in that way --  _ since sometimes, the Church cut corners and did not give them enough funds to get two cots, much less two beds. They had been roommates many times, in short.

Shamir always kicked her heels off first, while Catherine set Thunderbrand somewhere near her side of the bed. “Your room is quite -- uh, neat.”

“I do not use it often.” The jacket comes off next, set by the heels. 

“Right.” She removes her own boots, glancing to what little was in the room. A few tools to care for bows, dice, some daggers, an old necklace hung off a hinge near the nightstand. It was a room for Shamir. The bed was small. Catherine tried not to think on it and a few of her curious memories, of sharing the same sized beds, of looking after one another, “Why do you always skip on the celebrations?”   
“I do not understand what you celebrate, you know this.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“And you?”   
“Mh?”

“Why do you skip the celebration.” She repeats removing her belt,”Why you really do.”

“I only look at Lady Rhea, none of the knightly things,” Catherine watches the sniper move, smooth like silk.

“I expected as much,” Shamir sits down on the foot of her bed, “Though you honesty is appreciated.”

“Why did you ask me to come here?” Impatient as always, Catherine is crossing her arms, nothing but skepticism on her face.

Shamir reaches over pulling the blond by the belt. Catherine stumbles uncrossing her arms, and resting a hand on Shamir’s shoulder, blushing once more, “I thought it was quite obvious.” 

The knight pulls back her hand, “Yeah, but I don’t know if you are just joking. It’s been four or five years--”

“Four. I was here before you.” Shamir scoffs, undoing Catherine’s belt.

“Four years then. Now you tell me you like me?”   
“Again. I thought it was obvious.” The belt has been unclasped, and Catherine is biting her glove off, her other hand caressing the back of Shamir’s short hair, “I never took you as someone so dense.”

Her callous hand is now tracing over Shamir, tracing the shoulder and collarbone, tugging gently to undo the choker the sniper always wore, “Call it, drunken denial then.”

“You are not drunk,” A gloved hand slides into the bottom of her shirt, sliding over rough skin. The knight’s other glove is pushed off, “But I can pretend you are, if that sets you at ease.”

Catherine is the first to reach for the corner of her shit, “A bit but—“

Shamir takes over, standing up and casting the white blouse aside, “We do not need to have this conversation.” 

Those words cause a beat. She isn’t sure if it's of a drum, or of her head, or maybe her heart, or maybe her crest. Yet, her eyes are lost in purple, the heat resting for the moment. 

She doesn’t know.

The sniper raises her still gloved hands, cupping Catherine’s face, gently pulling her down from her sudden high into her lips. They linger, refuse to part, Catherine reciprocating by setting her own bare hands onto the sniper’s hips. For once, neither wants to part and ruin the silence, pressing into one another. She is sure that Shamir is pushing into her. That ignites Catherine.

The knight lowers her hands, grabbing and pushing on the back of Shamir’s thighs, taking them both for a short tumble onto the bed. It takes no insisting for Shamir to set her legs to Catherine’s side as the two continue to refuse and escape the other’s lips. They only part because Catherine is in a hurry to kiss along her jaw and over her neck, to peck and nips over her collar bone, while her hands worked those tight pants off her partner. Shamir? For some reason very deliberately pulling the red cord off her hair, letting her hair down, quickly kneading through her scalp in a rather soothing manner. It makes the knight hum against her skin.

“Such a kitten.”

“More of a dog person— hey, I didn’t say stop—“

Shamir chuckles, raising her hips to let Catherine push the pants aside, playing with her hair and letting golden locks slip through her fingers. A sly grin graces Shamir’s face “Are you even really blonde?”

She has gone lower, kissing over her chest still covered by that odd corset shirt, while fingers worked the strings, “You know what, we  _ really _ do not need to have this conversation.”

“  _ Von Charon?” _

_ “ _ I will ship you back to Dagda.”

Shamir laughs, fully, wholeheartedly, a sound that had never quite been heard by Catherine. The knight has to stop and stare, mouth a tiny but agape. It was wonderful. Shamir tilts her head, “What?”

“Nothing—“ She pushes the shirt open and works it off Shamir, “But happy is a good look on you.”

The sniper blinks a bit, before snorting and offering a small smile, “Maybe I will keep that in mind, Lady Charon.”

Catherine groans and instead leans in to nip at Shamir’s chest, opting to service the snipers chest. Sure, It wasn’t what the corset made it look like, but she liked it plenty, and it made Shamir not bother her more—

Her hands caress the sniper’s sides, feeling small crevices where blades and arrows left marks, most of them nothing but close calls. She continues, kissing lower, trailing kisses down to Shamir’s hip bone. Though her partner never stopped playing with her hair, she could feel how the grip had changed, now gently weaving into her hair, “Don’t actually leave.”

“Mh?”

Catherine traces the bone with her tongue, “I said Don’t leave.”

The sniper sits up a bit, realizing now that in her little trip down her body, Catherine had knelt on the floor. Her hand slides through the blonde locks, pushing those bangs away from the blue orbs they hid, “I do not plan to leave for a while, Catherine.”

“If you change your mind, I will—“ she trails off. 

“You will what.”

Their eyes are locked, but its Catherine who cries mercy, choosing to turn her face into Shamir’s thigh and bite roughly, causing the sniper to groan out and tug at her hair a bit, rousing a moan from Catherine, “We really do not need to have this conversation right now—“

“Agreed.”

It was undeniable that by now they were both too invested to turn back or be willing to ruin the closeness. So the second time their eyes meet, there is an unspoken agreement. Catherine nips again, much more gently, suckling on the skin before trailing to her destination. 

It was intoxicating, the rising short huffs and gasps that Shamir allowed herself, egging the knight on, as she finally pressed her tongue against the sensitive skin. Catherine’s weathered palms slide to wrap over her thighs, squeezing tight as she pressed in, wanting more of whatever those noises were. 

Certainly, Shamir always knew Catherine struggled to still her tongue, always running her mouth, but she was not going to complain now. She could tell that her partner was watching her every reaction, feeling for every twitch and sigh, learning what spots got the best reaction out of her. The knight was relentless, slowing and quickening just to get a particularly long moan, or cut a sharp inhale short. Shamir’s gloved hands were busy clutching the bedsheet by her head, the other occasionally tugging Catherine’s hair to prevent her from pulling away, and once or twice when the noble seemed to slow too much, Shamir would curse in Dagdan and threaten a groaned, “Don’t you dare stop.”

When the sniper unravels, Catherine feels it. She pulls her hair, lifts her hip, and lets out a particularly deep moan. She has to look, to get a good glance, to see Shamir with something other than a stoic mask — And she falls in love with her all over again, hands digging as she presses against the woman’s warm skin, taking every bit of her she can, not easing till the grasp on her hair finally relaxes, gloved finger tips rubbed small circles into her scalp.

Catherine doesn’t want to disrupt the peace, worried she’d startle an obviously breathless Shami, but she eventually gets off her knees, crawling over to lean on her elbows and over the sniper. Both Knights of Seiros were sweaty, and panting, so much so that Catherine was surprised she hadn’t realized how out of breath she was. Still, she has a self-righteous smirk that gets her Shamir’s palm playfully pushed at her face, as if to make her look away from the disheveled sniper.

They both chuckle, too tired to laugh. 

Shamir feels Catherine press to her palm as the weight of the blond rests more fully on her. She turns her palm, caressing her thumb over her cheek, before Catherine drops fully onto her.

  
  


“You better not leave, partner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this piece was influenced by a lot of great artists on twitter that kinda let me come back to writing fics after Overwatch went sour for me.
> 
> Anyways, this was meant to be a 1k word snippet done in one sitting (so it will probably be revised later) 
> 
> There may be a second part?? I don’t know, no promises, depends if anyone's interested.


End file.
